


October 2020 whump prompts

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Injury, Branding, Collars, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Restraints, Slavery, Torture, Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 16,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28671180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: All 31 prompts from the 2020 Whumptober event (a.k.a. "what a year it's been, time to take it out on some poor fictional characters"), each written on their numbered day.An unnamed man, our protagonist, wakes up inside a van after a night out, bound in chains and heading goodness-knows-where. You'd think his day couldn't get any worse - but it does. Oh, it does....Please heed the tags: any additional content warnings will be given in chapter notes. More sections may be added in the future.This universe is an open-ended one; prompts or scene requests are welcome, subject to the author's discretion (leave a comment or find me on tumblr).
Kudos: 3
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Let's Hang Out Sometime

**Waking Up Restrained** | Shackled | Hanging

\--

_ The interview room has never been a place brimming with home comforts, but at least someone in the team has made an effort. They’ve swapped the chairs out for the ones from the break room, turned the thermostat up a little and the lights down a little, and covered the table in a somewhat incongruous light blue cloth. It’s enough - and in any case, the person they’ve brought in doesn’t seem to be perturbed. He stands until invited to sit; for a moment, he looks about to fold down onto the floor, but catches himself in the act and settles into a chair in an almost painfully casual manner. _

_ The interviewer turns on the recorder, as agreed, states the time and date, and says, “You’re in control of this conversation - you can stop whenever you like, or take some time out. My colleague and I aren’t here to interrogate you; we may describe your responses for the tape, or ask you to expand on some details, but again, this is entirely optional. You don’t have to talk about anything that causes you distress. So please, in your own time - where would you like to start?” _

_ He smiles, at the floor. “Well,” he says, “it’s no use starting at the end, is it?” _

\--

It’s dark, and the floor is moving. He wakes in stages, like a mountaineer pausing to adjust to altitude, breathing shallowly: there isn’t the strength in him to panic just yet. Sensation comes slowly back to his limbs, giving him the impetus to stretch - and his wrists are cuffed together and his ankles bound by a short length of chain. He tests them, finds them solid, but doesn’t struggle. There’s no telling who else (or what else) might be in here. He can’t pull his hands too far forward; they’re further linked to his waist. The same must be true of his feet, although he can extend his legs, and presumably walk. If he ever gets to walk again.

The thought gives him pause, and a twinge of trepidation in his chest. He has no idea where he is, or why. He knows how it normally ends for people trapped like this in the field, captured by some terrorist or opposing army… but he wasn’t in the field. Or even in uniform. He was - is still - in civvies, making the most of leave out on the town… and that’s where his recall fails. He remembers being mildly drunk, and in a bar, and then - then it’s a blank.

That’s what makes him  _ really _ start to worry.


	2. In The Hands Of The Enemy

“Pick Who Dies” |  **Collars** | Kidnapped

\--

_ “I got the feeling,” he says, “when they opened the doors - and I saw there were five of us, all the same way…” he licks his lip, hesitant, “I thought maybe I was crazy. But I got the feeling right then that it was organised.” _

_ He looks at the interviewer - the first eye contact so far - then immediately drops his gaze to his folded hands. “Didya find the kid?” _

_ “The kid?” _

_ “We started off with five, we ended up with four. There was some kid who was using his brother’s ID, said he was twenty-two, and he was seventeen. They… I don’t know if they let him go, but… they took him away, and he was gone.” _

_ “We believe he’s alive,” the interviewer says neutrally. “We may be able to track him down.” _

_ “Uh-huh.” He seems at least slightly relieved. “And the rest of us, four of us - one of the guys was Navy and the other two were civilians, personal trainers or something….” _

\--

The silence in the vehicle has been so rigidly enforced that they don’t dare to say a word any more, even when hauled out blinking into morning sunlight beside a large, imposing house. Countryside stretches out around; it could be anywhere, but one thing is clear: there are no other buildings close by. The people from the van goad them on, inside, through an entrance hall and up to a cavernous bathroom. There, they are  _ catalogued _ . That’s the only word he can think of for it.

“Strip,” says one of their captors, a huge man with a toothpick sticking from the side of his mouth like a climber’s axe out of a rock face. When a couple of them have doubts, he rumbles deep in his chest, the sound of a short temper wearing down fast. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You wanna find out what the hard way is?” He surveys their faces, all of them drawn and frightened to some degree. “Huh?”

That convinces them. One by one, a man and a woman in scrubs (some kind of medics, perhaps) measure them, weigh them, mutter to each other, make notes on a clipboard. It’s almost a mercy to be handled with such detachment; taking away some of the absurdity of being nude in front of strangers. They get their underwear back, but nothing else. The woman talks quietly to the big man, who nods in approval and produces a holdall which clinks inside.

The collars are a surprise, but only just. He hates the feel of it around his neck, almost gives into the urge to fight as the buckle is fastened - tested for fit with two fingers, like you would for a dog - and locked in place. But it’s still just that bit too overwhelming; he’s just that bit too tired; the people guarding them just that bit too menacing. And he  _ really _ doesn’t want to find out what “the hard way” is.


	3. My Way Or The Highway

Manhandled |  **Forced to their Knees** | Held at Gunpoint

\--

_ “That’s the first thing they told us - one of the first things.” He crosses one leg over the other. “I don’t know why… or, I guess I do. It’s a kinda power balance thing. But once you get used to it, yeah… it just becomes the way.” He shrugs. “His name was Jonah. Like the whale guy, I think… I didn’t know that then, I found out later. But… what was I saying? I don’t know, I lost my thread….” _

_ The interviewer tells him that that’s ok, and patiently waits for him to continue. _

\--

They are shown - herded - into the basement of the house, cool and plain and lit by one fluorescent bar. There are two others in here already, bringing the total to six.

“You wanna stand,” the big man informs them, “you stand. You wanna sit - you sit on the goddamn floor.” He punctuates each sentence with a stab of an enormous finger. “From now on, chairs are not for you. Couches are not for you.  _ Furniture _ is not for you. Understand?”

There’s a brief silence - and then something reaches boiling point.

“The fuck you think you are?” says one of the civilians suddenly, angrily. His fetters clink as he straightens up - a fit man, looking straight from the gym except for the fact he’s standing chained and collared in a concrete basement. “I’ll sit on a fucking couch if I want to sit on a fucking couch - you can’t tell me what to do. I’m a citizen of a free fucking country, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Jonah does everything but roll his eyes, enduring the tirade as if he’s heard it all before.

“You wanna try and boss me around, you try it, big guy - you’re in for some fucking trouble. When I’m through with you….”

“Shut up,” Jonah says, sounding bored, “and sit down.”

“Excuse me? You think you’re the fucking King of England, is that it? You think you’re fucking lord of the manor?”

“I said sit down.”

“Well you can take your little power trip and shove it right - up - your -” and he doesn’t get to finish as Jonah smacks him sharply round the face - a quick backhand made to shock more than hurt. He staggers and then there’s a hand grabbing his shoulder and shoving him down with a  _ thwack _ that makes them flinch as one. He lands kneeling and looks up, face reddened, gaping like a startled fish.

“I told you twice, you fucking moron. Don’t - ever - make me repeat myself again.”

Even when the grip on him is released, he stays there, bewildered. “You,” Jonah says, pointing to one of the others. “Come here. On your knees.”

Momentarily, it looks like he might not do it - the trend for rebellion might continue. But he does, apprehensive and wary even once Jonah seems to be content.

“See? Not so hard.” He turns and leaves, banging the door closed at the top of the steps without another word.


	4. Running Out Of Time

**Caged** | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

\--

When he doesn’t return immediately, the two on the floor get up.

“What the fuck,” the civilian says. He’s shaking, body and voice. “Christ, what a shitshow.”

They look up at the ceiling like sinners in fear of God. Nobody comes back through the door. Either the people above haven’t heard, or don’t care.

“I’ve had worse days,” the Navy guy responds.

That provokes a snicker from a couple of the others, which grows and grows, until they’re all laughing helplessly. It’s not even that funny. But it breaks the tension, and brings them together.

“Fuck,” says the other civilian. “There’s  _ cages _ in here.”

They look around properly for the first time. The basement isn’t huge; it just seems cavernous without fittings. There’s a row of windows at one side, next to the ceiling, clean but with a scatter of cobwebs along their length. A few hooks are bolted to the walls, a few rings to the floor - which would be innocuous enough if they were accompanied by tools or furniture, but they’re not. The only other thing down here is a row of cages, each about the size of a large dog crate.

Disquieting enough on its own: and to add to that, one of them is occupied.

“There’s a  _ person _ !” They all shuffle over - walking with the length of chain they’re given is possible but not dignified - and crowd around. “Hey, dude.”

The man in the cage looks healthy, albeit a little cramped. His blue-green eyes evaluate them warily. He shifts position from sitting down to kneeling; the cage is big enough for that at least.

“Dude, are you ok?” Someone grabs the lock on the door, fumbles with it, gives it up as impossible. “Maybe we can get you out of here….”

“That’s not necessary,” and he’s actually smiling, placid and kind. “They’ll let me out this evening anyway - really, don’t worry about me.”

“Are you sure? Why are you in here anyway?”

He runs a hand through short blond hair with a rueful sigh. His wrists have cuffs on them, not attached to anything. His collar is thick dark blue leather with shining silver fastenings. “I talked back a little too much. It’s kind of a bad habit of mine. A day in the cage, so I’m out of the boss’s sight.” He makes the whole affair sound utterly banal, apparently unaware that they’re all staring. “You said you’ve had worse days - hell, so have I.”

“You’re in a  _ cage… _ .”

“Yeah, I am.” He chuckles. “Thanks for noticing.”

They all have questions, and all voice them at once overlapping.

“Who’s the boss?”

“Who are these people? What the fuck are they doing?”

“Where’s the keys? Does someone have them?”

“That big guy - what’s his deal?”

“And more to the point - how do we get out of here?”

\--

_ “You know what he told us? He said - he said he didn’t know. He didn’t know who they were, and he didn’t know anyone that escaped… I dunno if he was telling the truth.” He eyes the glass on the table, and reaches for it slowly and carefully to take a sip of water. “Maybe he was trying to make us feel better. He told us to keep quiet around the masters - he called them the masters, when he talked about them - and keep our eyes down. He said that was the best way to go unnoticed. And after a while, they’d take off the chains, and then the cuffs, and they’d think we could be trusted….” _

_ The interviewer nods. “Who was the man in the cage? Did you find out his name?” _

_ “No.” He grins, almost to himself. “Funny, right? We knew each other’s names but we didn’t know his. When we got back, he was gone. I don’t know if he lived in that house all the time, or not, I don’t know where he was from…. I just hope he’s ok.” _

_ “Did you ever get put in the cage yourself?” _

_ “Never. A couple of the other guys did. One of ‘em was claustrophobic - that must have sucked. He was in there all night….” He shakes his head. “They kept us pretty well locked up anyway. Especially after we tried to get out….” _


	5. Where Do You Think You're Going?

On the Run |  **Failed Escape** | Rescue

\--

_ “We couldn’t escape from the basement. But we thought we might be able to get out from the bottom of the house. One of the guys was convinced. He said he’d seen the layout, and there was a clear run out through the back door.” _

_ He swallows convulsively. “Not all of us wanted to do it. We didn’t know how many of them there were, or how far we’d get. But, uh… we were gonna take the chance anyway. Better than staying, right?” _

_ “Did anyone from your group succeed?” _

_ “What do you think?” he says. “No, of course we fuckin’ didn’t. We tried, though - counts for something, doesn’t it? Although maybe not enough….” _

\--

“So, here it is.” They’re sitting on the floor of the basement - plus clothes this time, and minus chains. During the day, they’re tethered for work; at night, they’re locked down here, a blanket each, a mattress between each pair. They can talk, though, and strategise. “About midnight, whoever’s in the kitchen leaves. Once we’ve got the key and opened the door, then we creep down the hallway… I don’t think the back door is locked. At least, I haven’t seen them lock it. And there’s someone who goes out to smoke in the evening….”

None of them sleep. The adrenaline in the room is almost tangible. Bit by bit, the house goes silent and still as they breathe fast in the darkness. Someone creeps up the steps, checks the crack under the door for signs of life in the kitchen, slips a cloth underneath and pokes the key out of the lock. It falls soundlessly to be reeled in and used. Step one: the basement is open. They re-lock it behind them and sneak through the ground floor like shadows.

Step two: the back door is open, as predicted. There’s a moment where it creaks a little, and they all freeze in place. Seconds tick by, slow and painful. Nobody comes.

The air is sharp and cold and the countryside is pitch black. They stole a torch, but don’t dare to use it until they’re well away from the house. Heading out over the fields, damp and chill, all of them wish that they had shoes. The black ribbon of the road is a welcome sight - they can move faster, and get further, and they know that they’re headed to civilisation.

The lights of a truck appear suddenly behind them and they dash to the side, but they’ve been spotted.

“Well, fellas,” an old man says, leaning from the cab like a tortoise peering from its shell, “either you’re looking for trouble, or you’re hoping it’s not looking for you.” He wheezes a laugh at his own witticism. “Anything I can help with?” Before they can reply, he adds “I’m headed home, but there’s room for you all - and tomorrow, I could take you into town. Get you wherever you’re going next.”

They evaluate, silently, between themselves. It would be easy to accept his offer - although even easier just to steal his truck and leave him in the night. Six of them, and only one of him. But they’re fugitives, not monsters.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he tells them as they clamber aboard. “If you can.”

He chuckles again, and puts the truck into gear.

The old man and his equally ancient wife are kind, but they have to move on. As dawn breaks, they plan to go back to the road and hitch a lift - or steal one. There’s no use waiting for their saviour to wake up.

This house is smaller than the one they came from, and quieter. Very quiet. Almost as if unoccupied.

One of them stops the others with frantic gestures. “There’s a truck in the yard,” he hisses. “It’s not his - it’s not the same.”

They hunch down and hide, and peek for themselves. Several vehicles, in fact, are in the yard; none of them belong to the old man. A glance from another window confirms their fears - the place is surrounded.

“What do we do?” With no immediate answer, he asks again, anxiety in his tone. “What do we  _ do _ ?”

“We can’t fight that many. We should try and run.”

And they try - oh, do they try.


	6. Please

“Get it Out” | No More |  **“Stop, please”**

\--

_ “It’s like running in a nightmare, you know? You just can’t get any faster, no matter how hard you try. I’m pretty quick, but there were more of them, and they hadn’t been walking all night. And they had shoes.” He twists his hands against each other. “I tried to fight ‘em, but a couple of them held me down. We got thrown into a truck, and that was it.” _

_ “You were taken back to the house?” _

_ “Yep. And then... .” _

_ He sighs. “They put us back in the basement… for a while. Then, they came and - I dunno, I guess someone must have flipped a coin. Or rolled a die. So they picked one.” _

_ “Who was it?” _

_ “It was, uh, me.” A tiny offhand shrug, as if to say ‘what can you do?’ “I got stripped down - which pissed me off, y’know, cos it was cold, and we were still damp from being outside… and the big guy, Jonah, took a belt - more of a strap, I guess, without a buckle - and said he was gonna beat my ass until someone admitted to planning our little escape.” _

_ “Did anyone come forward?” _

_ “Hey, I’m getting to that. Thing is, one of us really did come up with the idea: he thought it through and the rest of us just helped. And man, he looked like he was gonna pass out. I wasn’t really getting hit that hard - at least, I didn’t think so. I could still sit down afterwards, y’know? But it got him scared; he must have felt guilty as hell. So he told them to stop. He yelled at them - he pretty much begged them…. And yeah, he confessed to planning it. He, ah… he shouldn’t have done that.” _

_ “What did they do to him?” _

_ He stares at the table. “You really wanna know?” _


	7. I've Got You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for medical procedures (amputation) and blood.

Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

Alt 4.  **Stitches**

\--

_ “Yes,” the interviewer says gently. “Unless you’d rather not describe it; that’s ok.” _

_ There is a silence, punctuated only by him shifting in his chair. “You gotta understand,” he begins eventually, “this all happened pretty fast. I’d say in the space of about five, ten minutes… but it felt like a long time. A really long time. I was sitting on the floor still, with my ass stinging, and I thought they were gonna do the same to him - that’s what we all thought, probably. It’s not nice, it’s gonna hurt, but it’s bearable, y’know? It’s not the end of the world.” _

_ “What did they do instead?” _

_ “They cut off his toe.” He laughs, sudden and sharp. “Sorry. It sounds so fuckin’ dumb, saying it like that. They cut off his big toe on his right foot, and -” he giggles, breathes, controls his hysteria. “They said that was for the first offence.” _

\--

Two of the men pull him off his knees and put him on his back; a third restrains his leg. Confusion abounds among the rest of the captives, but this is a well-orchestrated procedure. They spread some sheeting and roll up a towel and the woman from the cataloguing enters with a set of instruments in a case. She doesn’t look happy - Jonah just shoves her forward as if challenging her to say a word. The  _ thunk _ of a cleaver is swift and brutal and his scream rips the air in the room and they all reel, disbelieving; she gets to work in blood and chaos and somehow seals the wound, stitching it closed against pinned-down struggles like a woman trying to do origami on a rolling ship. She wipes down the edges - her face trembles but her hands do not - and dresses it in acres of soft white gauze. He’s sobbing, his hands across his face as soon as they’re released, curling in on himself.

“Oh Jesus,” one of the others says, and passes out. The woman stops her tidying for a moment to attend to him, rolling him neatly onto his side in the recovery position, then resumes. The atmosphere is thick with sweat and fear and copper.

“Never gonna run again,” Jonah casually observes. He kicks the stricken victim lightly in the ribs. “Shouldn’t have run the first time.” He surveys them all (including the fainter, who is coming back around with a groan). “You understand?”

They indicate that they do.

“Good. Get him out of here. Take the rest of them back downstairs.”


	8. Where Did Everybody Go?

“Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned |  **Isolation**

\--

“Oh Jesus,” the same guy whispers again, still pale as a sheet. “Oh god.”

It might be a half-hearted attempt at prayer - or else, the only vocabulary he has left. They huddle together in the basement, listening to people move around upstairs, the same as always, as if nothing happened.

“Where have they taken him?” someone else asks miserably. “Is he gonna come back?”

A few shrugs and murmurs: none of them are sure.

“What…” he starts, then second-guesses himself, then third-guesses: “what happens if you run away  _ twice? _ ”

The other four take a moment to absorb this concept, with varying expressions of horror.

“I mean, it surely can’t be any worse than that?”

“Why, you gonna try it?”

“No! No, I mean - but what would they do? Cut off your foot?”

“Cut off your other toe,” as if it’s obvious. “You can still walk, you can still work - but you can’t run.”

“So you can run away ten times without losing a foot?” It’s perhaps meant as a joke and certainly treated like one, with an outbreak of soft and panicky laughter.

“I don’t even wanna think about it....”

\--

_ “We didn’t see him again. Well, we did once - but only for a minute. We didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, and… Jonah just said they’d found a buyer. That’s all he said, they’d found a buyer. And I guess that was when we realised we were for sale. Funny, right? Or not…..” _


	9. For The Greater Good

**“Take Me Instead”** | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice

\--

They don’t get an opportunity to talk; he’s occupied across the room and the guy who’s now minus a toe is being supervised, and they’re not allowed to make a sound - that’s been made abundantly clear. He can only watch as Jonah holds up a phone, takes a picture. “I told ‘em about the damage, they’re fine with it. Said they don’t need a fuckin’ marathon runner.”

The woman with him shrugs and turns the captive around for another photo. “They’re ok with having an escape artist in the house?”

“He’s hardly fuckin’ Houdini.” Jonah snorts. “Anyway, I don’t think he’ll try it again. They’re gonna lock him up until he’s trained.”

\--

_ “Trained to do what?” _

_ “Well,” he smiles lopsidedly, “you know how when you get a dog, you teach it to do stuff? Or not to do stuff. It’s gonna eat at this time, it has to go pee outside, it shouldn’t jump up on the couch…. Like that. It’s probably easier with people, I guess, because they understand what you’re telling them - but harder, because they don’t necessarily wanna do it.” He pulls one foot across his knee, contemplating. “You give a dog a bed in the kitchen and say ok, you’re gonna sleep here on the floor, and the dog’s ok with it. They’re like, sweet! A bed! You tell a human they’re gonna sleep on the floor, and they get mad at you. Dogs just assume that you’ve got all the ideas, plus all the food and stuff, all the incentives. People have their own ideas. So, uh, training a person isn’t so easy.” _

_ “How did they do it?” _

_ “How do you think? They made it so we didn’t have a choice. Keep quiet, keep your eyes down, don’t sit on the furniture… or you get the consequences. Meaning you get your ass kicked, or worse - someone else from the group does, and it’s not even their fault. Or none of you get fed. Or whatever, I don’t - I don’t remember too well, the punishments were always changing. And you know what? We just went with it. ‘Cos it was easier. A couple of us were talking big about how they’re not gonna be pushed around - me included, actually, I thought I’d be standing up to them like a tough guy, because I am - but when it’s your ass on the line, or someone else’s, especially someone else’s,” he takes a deep breath, “... it’s just better to shut up and do what they say. It becomes natural. Even if it fucking sucks.” _

\--

“Ok,” the woman says mildly, and doesn’t offer any further opinion. “I’ll put him in the van.”

Something about that - the image of their former compatriot being tossed in the back of a vehicle like a dejected second-hand armchair - is suddenly unbearable, and he has to speak, and he doesn’t care about the penalty.

“Hey.” He’s about to tell Jonah to pick on someone his own size, but that’s admittedly a very select group of the population with no members in this household. “Why don’t you give him a break? He’s had a rough fuckin’ time - thanks to you.” The next thing he says is monumentally stupid, driven purely by a sense of fairness: “Why don’t you just take me instead?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah growls, and grabs him by his collar and drags him opposite the other man. “Why don’t you take a fuckin’ look and see whether you’re the same. Are you the same? You fuckin’ moron?” He gives him a shake. “No. Of course you’re not. They wanted tall, they wanted slim, they wanted red hair - and that’s not you, is it?  _ Is it _ ?” He lets go with a snarl of exasperation. “Miss me with that martyrdom shit. They don’t want  _ you _ . They want him. Get back to work.”


	10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed

Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

  * Alt 10. **Nightmares**



\--

_ “There were three of us left. I actually knew one of the other guys - not well, but well enough. Still sleeping in the basement, still working around the house; it was like a homestead, they had us doing chores…. And it was one night I had a nightmare.  _

_ “It was pitch dark around there, no streetlights, nothing. RIght in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. We were lucky to get as far as we did when we escaped, I tell you that. The lights were off in the basement - and then someone opens the door at the top of the stairs, and they come down the steps, like a big black shadow, and I know it’s Jonah. He turns on the lights and we’re all blinking, thinking what the fuck? And he bends over me and the guy I know, and takes a look at us. He always grabbed your collar when he did that - like the scruff on a dog - got right in your face. He says ‘yeah, these two’ and pulls us up and takes us up the stairs. We’re in our underpants, did I say that? Kinda like one of those dreams where you’re naked at work. We get taken into the lounge, and it’s fuckin’ cold, it’s the middle of the night. There’s a woman there in a long black dress, or skirt, I can’t really remember… I’m wondering what is this, Halloween? Right? She’s with a couple of other people, and I don’t really see their faces. But she talks to them and then to Jonah and she’s like ok, we’re taking them. So they put the chains on us again and it’s even colder outside, and the moon is full - I can see it clearly, the full moon over the fields big and silver…. We get put in the back of an SUV with a couple of guys as guards, although what are we gonna do? Glare them to death? And we start off down the road. _

_ “So this is a pretty vivid dream, a nightmare - it’s what happened to the other guys. Not always at night, sometimes during the day. But pretty much the same. They just went. I can feel the seats underneath us, I can hear the road - empty, nobody else out at this kind of time. My buddy’s right there next to me, he’s about the only thing that’s warm in the whole world…. And I turn to him and I whisper - we’re not allowed to talk, but that’s only if they can hear us, right? - I say hey, is this a nightmare or what? Fuckin’ crazy. _

_ “And he says, what do you mean? Cos the thing is, we’re awake. It’s not a dream at all.” _


	11. Psych 101

**Defiance** | Struggling | Crying

\--

_ “This was a lot bigger house. Like, a lot bigger. Still way out in the country, middle of nowhere... . Real creepy-lookin’ place. We get there about dawn, maybe, and they drag us out of the car. And we get given pants - doesn’t sound like a big deal, but believe me, it was fuckin’ cold in there. You learn to appreciate the little things. Like, y’know, clothes.” _

\--

Whatever heating is present in the house hasn’t got up to speed yet; it’s warmer than outside, but not by much. The corridors have shining lacquered floors but the rest is carpeted thickly, with heavy dark drapes and ornate furniture. Wood panelling covers walls hung with paintings and hunting trophies, each as dead-eyed and macabre as the last.

“Who lives here?” he mutters, “fuckin’ Dracula?”

Thrown down to their knees in one such Gothic immensity of a room, they wait - for what, it’s not immediately apparent. Finally, a door crashes open and a chill draught precedes the entry of two women. One is unremarkable, short and blonde in slacks and a woollen cardigan. The other is taller, slimmer, and in a long black dress which brushes the ground as she moves, quick little steps carrying her forward like a ship under sail. Her hair is pinned up under a sort of cap, and a black veil covers her face completely. Her clothing is just modern enough to dislodge the impression of an actress in a period drama, dressed up as some anguished Victorian widow - but it’s certainly still a distinctive look.

They stare at her. She halts in front of them, and clasps her hands together.

“Told you it was Dracula,” he whispers, to his friend’s agreement.

He has the distinct feeling that she is meeting his eyes, through the hazy darkness of the veil. It makes him tense up, by degrees, the longer it goes on.

Eventually - to his instant relief - she turns and murmurs something to the woman next to her, who nods sharply and steps forward.

“The mistress is not happy,” she declares. Her eyes, big and blue and doe-like, gaze at some spot between the two of them.

“That,” he says, “is her fuckin’ problem.”

“She is disappointed that you have not learned,” the woman continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “She was under the impression that you had been taught the rules: to keep your eyes down, and not to speak in her presence unless directly addressed.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m addressing her now. Who the fuck does she think she is?” He shrugs, making all the chains rattle; his collar is still connected to his hands, which are in turn linked to his feet. “What gives her the fuckin’ right?”

The woman in black whispers again.

“The mistress also expects that you do not use such language.”

“Then she can get fucked!” he snarls, irritated.

The blonde woman flinches, but the ‘mistress’ does not. A gust of breath flutters the veil. She’s laughing at him. She bends to her companion again.

“The mistress warns you that such behaviour is not tolerated here,” the blonde woman says, a touch of anxiety creeping into her tone. “If you do not behave - you will be broken.”


	12. I Think I've Broken Something

**Broken Down** | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

\--

_ “I’m gonna be honest, it was pretty rough.” He grins to himself. “I don’t remember too much of those days - weeks - however long it was. Seemed like forever. I know you want the details, but… I just don’t remember everything.” _

_ “That’s alright; it’s understandable. You can tell us what you do remember.” _

_ “We didn’t see that weird woman - the mistress - again for a while. I know that. Just that blonde woman… she appeared again and said we had to improve our attitude.” _

_ “What did she want you to do?” _

_ “Stop cursing at them, I guess. She never actually said. That was what it was like: there weren’t that many actual rules besides the basic ones… but it was all about attitude. If you did something they didn’t like, it was a bad attitude, and you got punished.” He bites at his thumbnail briefly, shakes his head. “It could be anything. They brought the fuckin’ hammer down on us for every little thing. Stress positions, I remember that. Not enough to do real damage, but it hurt. We were cold, hungry, tired - sleeping in a fucking wine cellar, on the stones - and they’d play us off against each other. We just gave in to protect the other one. Or to make it stop. So, I kinda stopped acting out. It was hard enough just to survive. Like I said, I don’t know how long it was… a few days, minimum. I remember…” he looks off into the distance, swallows hard, “we weren’t supposed to look them in the eye, you know. I did it once too often. I got tied down by the collar with my face about an inch from the floor, and stayed like that for hours. Couldn’t move at all. So that’s… that’s how we learned. _

_ “The first time we did something right - ok, maybe it wasn’t the first time, but I think they thought we’d learned enough somehow - that’s when we saw the mistress again. Actually, I don’t know if we were together. It might have been just me. But I didn’t have any chains, wasn’t tied to anything… it was one of the rooms with the carpet, and there was a fireplace, a real one, with a fire in it. She was sitting in a chair beside that. Still with the black veil, I couldn’t see her face - but then again, I wasn’t really looking. Eyes down. And I sat on my knees next to the fire, and… that was the first time in a long time that I felt warm. I think there was food as well. Either way, it was comfortable - I was comfortable, for the first time, totally peaceful. And not struggling, not fighting, not scared. It was so peaceful. And,” he laughs shortly, “ok, this is gonna sound so weird: I thought it wasn’t too bad. I could get used to this.” _


	13. Breathe In Breathe Out

Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

  * Alt 6. **Altered States**



\--

He gazes into the fire, its endless dancing depths, into the near-invisible dark at the heart of every flame. It mesmerises him, laps at his skin with warmth. The chill of the basement seems very far away - the freezing flagstones where they spend their time, the solid locked doors and the sounds which come from behind them which he hopes he’s imagining, or hallucinating, one way or the other, because if not, then there are other people down there suffering even worse. Some of the sounds might be his own. He’s not sure any more. He checked out a while ago; stopped trying to make sense of things; let go of all but instincts just to survive. He’s running on fumes. He doesn’t know when he last ate, or slept. There is no schedule and there is no sunlight; nothing at all to go on.

The fire is the only thing that seems real. The weave of the carpet on his skin is there, somewhere, but not somewhere he lives right now. He closes his eyes for a moment but doesn’t feel tired - more like suspended, caught halfway to awake. If he was told to lie down, he would probably sleep. If he was told to stand, he would probably walk. But he would have to be told: he’s sure of that. It’s easier not to move until called upon - easier not to attract unwanted attention. Hands placed down on his lap, back straight, head down; a posture assumed without any kind of prompt. So he can go away, until they want him back.

The mistress, as they call her, is sitting in a chair drawn up near the crackling fire. Nondescript shoes touch the carpet beside him; a long grey skirt gives way to a plain white shirt and the ever-present black-veiled face. She may be watching him, or may not. He doesn’t look. Curiosity killed the cat: he knows now that it could be equally fatal for him.

“Do you like the fire?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he says, partly because it’s true, but mostly because that’s the answer that she’s looking for.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, mistress.” His shoulders are suddenly tense.

“I suppose there’s always more to learn.” She doesn’t seem disappointed. “I’m very pleased with how both of you are doing. I looked at you when you came in and I thought Jonah might be pulling my leg - honestly, he likes to annoy me sometimes…. But no, he was right. All it took was a little work.” Her voice is soft and cultured, casual in inflection. She sounds like a Miss America contestant describing her ideal vacation. “I think you’ll be perfect.”


	14. Is Something Burning?

**Branding** | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

\--

_ “You said that ‘the mistress’ didn’t speak to you in person very often?” _

_ “No - we were usually in the basement, or somewhere around the house or the gardens. Away from her. If she had, I dunno, orders to give, the other woman would come and tell us.” _

_ “Do you know who this other woman was?” _

_ “No idea, but she was always around. I never heard her talk about herself, or like... talk to someone normally. She’d just tell us what the mistress said. Or answer whoever asked her a question. You could never, y’know, get a conversation started….” _

_ “Did you ever try?” _

_ “Hell no. We weren’t supposed to talk either, remember. And she was so close to the boss - she would have snitched on us and we’d have been fucked. I’m sure about that. I’ve got a feeling she was the one reporting everything we did wrong. Eyes and ears, y’know? It’s a shame, because I might have liked her otherwise. She was cute, not gonna lie. With these great big blue eyes.” He sighs. “And she was never mean to either of us, even though she could have been. Even though most of them were. Nobody would have stopped her - but I got the feeling that she didn’t want to be. Sometimes I even got the feeling that she didn’t have a choice at all.” _

_ “You suspected she was being coerced?” _

_ “Something like that. She never seemed like she was happy - the way she did things, it was almost… on autopilot. I’d see her look like she was scared, or blank. That was it. And once… once, it was when she was reaching for something on a high shelf. She was short, y’know? I would’ve offered to help her or brought her a step or something, but I wasn’t able to. She put her arm up and her shirt came up and her jeans were these low-cut… ok, it sounds like I was staring at her ass. But I wasn’t, I swear. It just… the gap just caught my eye, and I saw a good part of what I thought was a birthmark at first. Like a coloured patch. But I looked - couldn’t help it - and it wasn’t, it was a scar. Pink, shiny, something healed over. And I realised it was a burn mark. Or, worse than just a burn, deeper than that, in a proper kind of shape. A brand. Just on the side of her hip. I don’t know if she saw me looking. I hope she didn’t. But that… I felt bad for her after that. That’s why I think, in the end, we were all in the same situation….” _


	15. Into The Unknown

Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

  * Alt 3. **Comfort**



\--

The lights in the basement have long since winked out - the window next to the roof is faintly luminous with moonlight, but that’s all. The room is full of thick cold darkness, the heavy wooden door shut tight and locked. Perhaps it once held fresh food, or cured meats, or wine; the walls show traces of where structures used to sit, in a cool tranquil space where time and decay could be suspended for a while. Now, it feels like a place where you could rot away forgotten. This far away from the rest of the house, the silence is complete and unnerving.

They don’t often get left alone for long enough to properly sleep - and if they do, it has to be down here, where half the night is spent shivering and the other half made restless by nightmares for fear of what the next day might bring. But at least they have each other.

Too exhausted to talk, they huddle under a single blanket and share what little heat they’ve got. The feeling he got in the car, the night they were taken, comes back to him: the impression that this is the only warmth in the whole universe. It makes it slightly easier to fall asleep - even now, when a blustery north wind whips the corners of the house and bellows into the night. They pull the blanket tighter around themselves, and doze off in turns, leaning on the one who’s keeping watch.


	16. A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Forced to Beg** | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

\--

_ “He said he had an idea, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was… I thought he was just gonna get himself in trouble. Or worse. But hell, at least he was willing to try.” _

_ “What was his idea?” _

_ “He… said he thought he could get us out of the basement.” _

\--

The idea is this: in order to be rewarded, it’s not enough to simply be compliant. One has to distinguish oneself, go above and beyond, to be noticed. Apparently, it might work.

“To sleep somewhere else?” The blonde woman clasps her hands tightly together, a posture that looks like formality but hides anxiety. The mistress leans in and whispers to her, and she clears her throat. “You’ll have to ask very nicely.”

Kneeling, hands on legs, back straight, head down, he agrees. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Please, may we sleep upstairs?” They don’t even know her name, but he’s addressing her first. The mistress chuckles behind her veil, and whispers again.

“Crawl to my feet,” the blonde woman instructs, to the air in front of her. “Take your time.”

He does, spine flexing smoothly, and settles to stillness an inch in front of her.

“Please, ma’am?”

“I don’t think you really mean it,” she says dully.

He folds himself down, a supplicant’s bow, forehead touching his hands touching the ground between her shoes.

“I’m begging you, mistress. Please….”

“I don’t know. Should I dismiss you?”

“No, please don’t. I’ll do anything, please….”

“Anything?” The word hangs in the air, menacing, and he’s dug far enough that he can only murmur “yes”.

A consultation follows. The blonde woman looks frozen to the spot, with him curled at her feet.

“The mistress says you must come and kiss her hand.”

A pale, delicate hand is extended, beckoning him forward. He crawls again, brushing marks into the rug, and goes to reach for her.

“Hands behind you.”

He instantly obeys, wrists crossed - it’s muscle memory, by now, with the time they’ve spent in such a position. He bends his head and lightly kisses the backs of her fingers.

“Good,” the mistress says; the first time she’s spoken to him so far. “Now ask again.”

“If it pleases you, mistress - may we sleep upstairs?”

Her head tilts, regarding him.

“I’ll think about it.”


	17. I Did Not See That Coming

Blackmail | Dirty Secret |  **Wrongfully Accused**

\--

He knows, then, that she’s the one who reported them - incorrectly, at that. They don’t even get the chance to work in the kitchen, let alone somehow smuggle out food. The thought of it alone makes his stomach rumble; he realises how hungry he must be.

“You  _ bitch _ !” he shouts at her, consumed by a sudden fury. The chain clanks as he’s pulled up short on the end of it, barely noticing. “You lying, cheating, tell-tale  _ bitch _ ! You think you’re so fucking clever?”

He can’t control the words and he can’t take them back - he wasn’t supposed to speak at all, but now he has done and there’s no satisfaction in it at all. His anger is sharing space with fear. One of the kitchen staff, a relative stranger to him, she looks like she’s about to cry. She could run away from him - he can’t follow her - but she doesn’t.

“I didn’t…” she says, hesitantly - as if she’s not sure herself. “I never said that….”

“What?”

“I don’t know? I noticed stuff was missing… I just thought… I might have said that you guys….”

That dissipates his rage, as quickly as it came. He feels cold. Footsteps are thundering down the hallway towards the room, drawn by the noise.

“You even know what you’ve done?” he asks, soft and stricken.

“Are you in trouble?” she guesses, almost a whisper. “Did I get you in trouble?”

“Oh, honey,” he says, “you have no idea.”


	18. Panic! At The Disco

Panic Attacks | Phobias |  **Paranoia**

\--

“You can tell me,” she says, “if he’s done anything he shouldn’t.”

“Would he do the same for me?” he wonders aloud (the rule of silence means that, when he finally starts talking, he tends to voice everything).

“Yes,” she says - too quickly. Too confidently. “I’m sure he would.”

\--

_ “You couldn’t trust anybody. At least, that’s how they were making it feel - nobody ever told us that, but it was… implications. They’d just drop a hint, that, I don’t know, they knew that you were half-assing a job, or doing something you weren’t supposed to, and after a while, you get to believe that they know everything. That you better behave, because there’s no way of not getting caught. And me and him spent a lot of time together, but when we saw the mistress at all, it was usually separately… and she was definitely trying to play us off against each other.” _

_ “She wanted you to distrust him?” _

_ “Yeah - it didn’t really work. Kind of, but not really. We didn’t talk except when we were completely alone, and I never asked him whether he was snitching on me, and he never asked me. But I don’t think he was. And I definitely wasn’t. But, that’s the thing… I say I don’t think he ever did, but I can’t really be truly sure, and vice versa. It makes you second-guess everything that’s going on behind your back, it makes you crazy with it, thinking ‘but I haven’t done anything wrong, you’ve gotta see that, I’m not doing anything wrong’.... You get to acting like you’re about to be rumbled, all the time - you try to be perfect, better than perfect, even when you’re not being watched, because then there’s no way they can come after you … and what’s even worse, you start throwing other people under the fuckin’ bus. Because you know you can. Because an easy way out is to say that you saw somebody else doing something worse, and hope they catch the heat instead of you….” He bites his thumbnail, then looks up sharply. “Did I tell you Jonah was there?” _

_ “No, you didn’t mention that so far.” _

_ “Fucking hell.” He laughs. “Sorry. I forgot to say - it was a few days in, or maybe a couple weeks; no idea. We thought we’d left him, back at the other place… and then he was there. Like he never left. Walking round like he owned the place - like he owned us.” _

_ “Did he live there?” _

_ “Fucked if I know. Honestly, I think he did - he was around a lot, it seemed like it was his home, rather than wherever we were before.” _

_ “What was his role in the household?” _

_ “Not sure. We tried to stay out of his way, y’know? We knew what he was like. He’d kick you like a dog, just for fun - oh, and he was her brother. I guess I didn’t tell you that either, if I forgot to say before. The mistress, I mean - I think he was a few years younger than her. I overheard them talking, quite a lot. He would always wind her up; she didn’t really get mad, but she’d be annoyed with him. This whole thing,” he waves a hand to indicate the general state of affairs, “they were definitely in it together.” _

_ “Do you think they were the ringleaders?” _

_ “I don’t know. But… it makes you suspect that they were. Right?” _


	19. Broken Hearts

Grief | Mourning Loved One |  **Survivor’s Guilt**

\--

_ “Were there others like you in the house?” _

_ “Yeah. There were a few, but we were all on different jobs, different times. That’s why she was mad at Jonah for bringing us in - part of it, anyway. She didn’t like pairs, or groups. Most of the guys were there alone.” _

_ “Did you ever get the chance to meet them?” _

_ “No. We’d get our ass kicked if we talked to them; it was just safer to ignore each other. Sometimes they were there, sometimes they were gone…. I never knew what happened to them.” He sighs. “I don’t think they were set free, you get what I’m saying? I don’t think they made it out of there at all. I think… if you dig in the woods all around that house, you’d find a fuckin’ cemetary.” _

_ “Did you see anybody being killed?” _

_ “Not personally. But the way they were there one day and gone the next - it was pretty fucking suspicious. I dunno, maybe they were ok. Maybe they just got shipped off to some other house, some - some other owner. I hope so. Or not. That’s the thing, see - I don’t know if death was actually better than a life like that.” _

_ “You don’t know?” _

_ “Sure. Because I didn’t die, did I?” _


	20. Toto, I Have A Feeling We're Not In Kansas Anymore

**Lost** | Field Medicine | Medieval

\--

_ “You could easily hide a body in those woods, I’m telling you. Tons of bodies - the grounds were fuckin’ huge. We weren’t allowed to wander off much, obviously. But a couple times, I got to see just how big that place was….” _

The chill sinks quickly through every protective layer (not that they have many); the humid air clings like a dampened shroud, and a heavy mist smothers everything outside. They’re working in the brush, carting away the dead remains of springtime growth cut loose by the groundsman’s team. He’s asked to fetch something from the stable block - a ten-minute walk, back towards the house - but gets turned around, somehow.

The mist closes in, and he loses the path.

It’s silent out here; he holds his breath for a few moments and listens to nothing at all. No sounds from the house, and none from the work he left behind - no birds, and no beasts. He keeps walking, in some direction or other. The leaves are too damp around his feet to make much more than a wet rustling. The ground is soft but not too muddy. It doesn’t slow him down.

He has no way of knowing the time: hasn’t worn a watch since his was taken from him at their capture. The lively bar, a thousand miles and a hundred years from here. People talking, shouting, laughing. Falling about with each other. The embrace of the night-time street as he stepped outside - and then a blank, a hole in his memories. It doesn’t trouble him as much as it used to, even when it features in his nightmares. Alone in the woods - alone for the first time in a while - it’s peaceful. He can’t bring himself to worry too much about anything at all.

There’s no hint of sun to break the gloom. Hardly “broad daylight”. He thinks he’s probably heading for the house, expecting to see brick structures looming any second - though a while later, he’s no longer so sure. There must be a boundary to the estate, so maybe he’ll come across that instead, a fence or a gatehouse of some sort. All he has to do is keep heading in a straight line, but then he sees a tree stump lined with orange-red fungi and he’s almost certain he’s seen it before. He pauses and looks at it for a while, and then heads in what he thinks is the other direction.

The mist is slowly turning blue, and he’s still walking. His extremities are fairly numb; he keeps promising himself that he’ll stop soon, and rest, and rub some life back into his flesh. The shadows are becoming deeper, their edges merging into blurs. He realises that it must be getting dark. Perhaps nobody will find him. With luck, and a few survival skills, he could make it through the night, and start walking again when dawn breaks, and find the edge of the estate and the road leading to it, and then… and then….

They hunt him down just after nightfall, a band of men with lights and dogs, and he’s hauled back to the house and beaten by them. And he laughs, because at least now he can feel his feet.


	21. I Don't Feel So Well

**Chronic Pain** | Hypothermia | Infection

\--

“ _The day after, that was always the worst.” He stretches his back, as if feeling wounds of the past. “You’d wake up, go to stand up… and holy fuck, it would hurt.”_

_“Did you get beaten frequently?”_

_“Depends on what you mean by frequently, I guess. Most of the time, it was only when we did something wrong. They… they’d trained us well enough that we behaved, but you could always fuck up somehow. I fucked up quite a bit. Not always enough to get beat, but sometimes. And, after a while you get used to it. It doesn’t really bother you - until you get up and you can’t fucking move._

_“Remember, we were sleeping on a hard floor. The mistress wasn’t kidding when she said she’d think about it - we were in the basement for at least another week or so. Then we actually did get moved, to a room upstairs. No furniture, not for us… but it had heating, and a window, and a carpet. As far as we were concerned, fuckin’ luxury. But still not comfortable. Day after day, working and getting kicked around and then sleeping in a blanket on the floor: you get used to a certain level of pain, the whole time. Just like you get used to being tired, and cold, and hungry. It’s just how you operate. You forget what comfort is like - you have to forget, otherwise you’ll go nuts. Hell, I think some of us did. But… they had other ways of dealing with them.”_


	22. Do These Tacos Taste Funny To You?

Poisoned |  **Drugged** | Withdrawal

\--

_ “There was… at least a couple times that I got painkillers, after something happened. I don’t know why. It seemed pretty random. And it seemed like they were being nice - it sounds like they were, right? Trying to make sure we weren’t suffering… but it didn’t happen all the time, and to be honest - I preferred it without. That stuff was strong. Like, prescription kinda strong. I was walking round on cloud nine the whole fuckin’ day, but I was useless. I just couldn’t do anything. At least if I was in pain, I still knew what the hell I was doing.” _

_ “Do you know what it was that they gave you?” _

_ “Fucked if I know. Codeine, morphine, I dunno. Not even sure if it was legal. Could’ve been high off my ass on K or something - who was gonna check?” _

There is one occasion he remembers well, although he leaves it out of the conversation. It’s near dawn, or so he supposes - they’re woken early for housework, and he was cold and sore and aching, until he drank something with something in it, and then… he was fine. Better than fine. The world around him is muted, cushioned by a layer of peace and comfort that he hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s a challenge for him to focus; he wonders what the others must think.

Upstairs, cleaning the grate of a fire, watching his hands turn grey with soot, she almost creeps up on him entirely before he notices. And - this is the part he’s not sure whether he imagined or not - she lifts her veil, and he’s looking at her face for the first time, and it’s a pleasant face. There’s a little scarring, from some incident far in the past, but nothing that disfigures her. She’s pretty, albeit pale, and he might have said that out loud, because she laughs at him and covers her features again, and she’s gone like a breath of wind. He goes back to his task, but it’s even more difficult to concentrate than before.


	23. What's A Guy Gotta Do To Get Some Sleep Around Here?

**Exhaustion** | Narcolepsy | S **leep Deprivation**

\--

“I don’t think I can do it,” the man says, casually, conversationally. “No,” although he’s talking to himself more than anything, staring off into the distance, “I can’t do it.”

They avoid him, nervously. Unwilling to be caught talking, but equally afraid of his absolute calm, his pitched serenity. He sits against the wall, hands by his sides, dark wood panelling at his back the only thing keeping him upright.

Of course, they’re all tired. But he seems to have ascended to another level, the life gone out of his limbs like a puppet laid down by its owner. When someone demands that they move, they all obey - except for him.

Jonah strides over and hauls him up by the collar. He goes with it, though it must be uncomfortable, and gazes blankly at the annoyance of his master.

“Did you not hear me? Get moving.”

“No,” he says quietly - almost too quiet to hear. Jonah slaps him across the face.

“I wasn’t fucking asking.”

He nods, as if pondering the statement. Growling, Jonah drags him towards the door: toward an unknown fate.

\--

_ “I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking, more like it. I didn’t tell him to stop, he wouldn’t listen to that - but I just said wait. There’s a lot of us, right? We can do another share of the work, no problem. It’s what, another hour? We can do that. And, uh… I did it the way they liked, you had to be on your knees with your eyes down, ask them nicely like they’re doing you a big fuckin’ favour. Jonah liked beating the shit out of us. But he liked feeling like a big-shot even more, and I guess he was tired as well. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t lazy. So he said ok, let’s see how you like it. And he threw the guy back to us - literally, threw him down. And… I probably should have checked with the others, but there wasn’t time. They all agreed anyway. We did our extra, and we let the dude sleep. That was all he needed….” _


	24. You're Not Making Any Sense

**Forced Mutism** | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

\--

_ He takes a long drink of water, sits back, closes his eyes. The room is quiet with the sound of their breathing for a while. _

_ “Sorry,” he says eventually. He rubs his neck briefly, avoiding the area where his collar used to lie purely out of ingrained habit. _

_ “We can stop,” the interviewer offers, “if you’d like to.” _

_ “Nah, it’s fine. Just a little rough.” He clears his throat. “You get used to not using your voice. I can’t remember the last time I talked so long.” _

_ “You weren’t allowed to speak at all?” _

_ “Only if they talked to us. Directly, I mean; if they asked us a question or something. Otherwise, dead silence. We used to whisper when they weren’t around - but only whisper. In case they overheard. And after a while, you sort of get out of the habit. You don’t really feel like having conversations. Especially if you don’t want to get caught.” _

_ “What would happen then?” _

_ “I don’t know. Well, I do - I used to sass them back sometimes and get my ass kicked, as usual. But… that was all, for me. For us. There was a guy who was around sometimes who literally never said anything, and we heard… we heard they’d shut him up permanently. With surgery or something. Nobody ever asked him. Not that I knew of. But he really never spoke to anyone - ever. And he didn’t whisper, and he didn’t scream. Not even when he probably should have done. When most of us did. So, y’know.” He touches his neck again. “They said the collar would hide the scarring.” _


	25. I Think I'll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks

**Disorientation** | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

\--

The hallways of the house sometimes seem to merge and shift. He knows it’s due to lack of sleep - and lack of illumination, especially at night - but he’s also seen The Shining, and he gets it now. He gets how the hotel could confuse and confound; how the corridors could have untold horrors around every corner; how you could end up going insane. It doesn’t help that they’re obliged to retreat whenever the masters appear, to cast their eyes down and back off and hide. There are so many stairways and passages behind the walls, hung with cobwebs and barely lit. A fall down the solid steps could prove fatal, and nobody would know. Nobody would look. You’d lie undiscovered, probably for days.

His sense of direction was never the best: when he’s alone, he tends to get lost. He’ll leave a room and be unable to find it again, or know where his next task is but not know how to get there. He opens doors and retraces his steps, to no avail. Eventually he’ll run into someone - one of his companions if he’s lucky; one of the masters if he’s not. He’s ended up back in the basement before, and in the kitchen, and in one of the towers, and in a bedroom, and worst of all, a gallery full of creepy portraits. The painted eyes judged him without mercy, staring down from their gilded frames with solemn faces that seemed a lot more lively than they should be, thanks to the flickering shadows from wind-tossed treetops: he had to reverse out, not daring to turn his back on them. He could feel them watching him, long after he made it back to the safety of their room.


	26. If You Thought The Head Trauma Was Bad

Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

  * Alt 9. **Memory Loss**



\--

_ “I can say there’s parts I don’t remember now - I guess that’s normal, if you’re under pressure, or it’s easier just to check out and not think about what’s happening. But uh, at the time, my memory wasn’t too great either. In a weird way.” _

_ “What kind of things did you forget?” _

_ “My name.” He smiles grimly at the table. “What day it was - we never really knew that - or what year it was. Whether I’d eaten, things like that. Like I said, it was easier just to check out. And one day - one of the other guys asked me where I was from. Y’know, where I came from or where I lived… and I couldn’t fucking remember. I just stared at him. Like an idiot. I couldn’t remember about my life, what it was like - what I did before. This was just… it. My whole existence was that fucking house and those people and that woman with the black gauze over her face and it fucking scared me. That I couldn’t think about what things were like before. _

_ “And then after about a minute of being a dumbass, I remembered, and I told him where I was from, and he told me where he was from, and we had a whole… a whole thing going. At about midnight, whispering to each other in the dark. I could picture every detail of the night I got caught, everybody I was with, everything we did, right up to the point I must have passed out. It was vivid; like a movie. I could imagine the colours, I could see people’s faces - I thought about the people I knew, for the first time in ages. It sounds stupid but - the first few days we were captive, I was worried all the time, thinking about whether they might be looking for me, whether they thought I was dead, if they’d gone to the cops and what they might be waiting for… and then, some point, I must’ve stopped. I didn’t think about it any more. Everything else just ceased to exist. _

_ I had nightmares, once we finished talking - I don’t think I slept really at all. I kept imagining that I’d escaped, and I saw everyone and told them I was ok, and they… they’d forgotten me. Just like I forgot them. Or worse, they saw me and they called Jonah and the others to get me, so I ended up back there again. I could’ve done without all those dreams. I guess I had a bad memory for a reason….” _


	27. Ok, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card?

Earthquake | Extreme Weather |  **Power Outage**

\--

Cold wind and sudden squalls of rain, whipping at any loose objects and making work outside a miserable affair, have been the order of the day, and as the sun sinks and the sky darkens with a scowling mass of rolling clouds, the storm sets in properly. Windows shimmer opaque with rain, and the thunder shakes the air and the wind drives mercilessly at every angle and then some. Everyone huddles indoors, thankful for the warmth of the fires and the comfort of dry clothes, counting flashes of lightning through gaps in curtains.

And then, abruptly, the fire is the only source of light. It flickers over their worried faces and the storm seems to press in closer and fiercer than ever.

“Power’s out,” someone says, to general agreement, and they all consider what they could do under cover of darkness and confusion; but the masters must know this, and after all the security of the house is still based on old-fashioned locks and bolts. Nothing has been released to help them escape. And in this weather, where could they go?

So they stay put, and heave another log onto the fire, and count the lightning some more.


	28. Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops.

**Accidents** | Hunting Season | Mugged

\--

_ “So, I wasn’t there when it happened. Well, I kind of was. But only straight afterwards, I didn’t, yknow, see it happen. I just heard, and I went to look.” _

The storm has blown itself out some time in the few tense and feverish hours that they slept. Aside from a few scraps of cloud, the day dawns clear, and water shines on every surface as if mirrors have been scattered from the sky.

Power has come back, and the inside of the house has fallen into line - but not so for the outside. Objects have been turned over, branches have been ripped from trees, and slates are loose on the rooftops all over.

_ “He was outside, on the roof - not right on the top, not very high. Otherwise, uh… it would have been a lot worse. But it was still wet, and I guess he must have slipped. Anyone would have done. And he fell. I heard - I don’t know if it was him, or someone else - I heard a scream and I ran outside, and he was there on the ground. I wanted to help him but they wouldn’t let me near.” _

“You asshole - he’s my friend!” It seems important to state, as if it imbues him with a kind of power. Jonah still holds him back, one huge hand twisted in his collar in a way that he’s familiar with (and hates the fact that that’s the case).

“What are you gonna do, wave your magic wand?” Jonah snarls, and under the belligerence - for the first time, as far as he knows - there’s a hint of fear. This wasn’t meant to happen. They beat and abuse and possibly even kill the captives in their domain, but this is something they didn’t anticipate.

The mistress appears, silent and sudden, and surveys the scene. The blonde woman is with her, eyes wide, apparently horrified.

“Don’t move him,” she says. “We need an ambulance.” The mistress turns to her and says something, but she shakes her head. “We can’t - we can’t move him inside, he might - it could make it worse. Please.”

“What did I say?” the veil flutters, as she advances.

The blonde woman holds out her hands, warding off the unstoppable force of her master’s displeasure. She freezes there, for a moment, a rabbit caught in headlights - and then breaks and runs over to his side. Some sort of training takes over, and she’s examining him, touching his limbs, calling to the others to fetch and carry.

Watching this, the mistress folds her arms.

“Come back here this instant,” she demands. “Don’t waste your time.”

“No,” the blonde woman says. “Call 911, somebody.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jonah lets go; he has a new target. “Just fucking leave him, I’ll get the shotgun from the garage.” He looms over her, at least three times her size.

“No!” she shrieks, surprising herself with the fury of it. “If you’re not gonna help - get lost!”

Jonah just huffs. He goes to kick the casualty - and she grabs his foot and shoves it aside with a force that almost topples him. “Go fuck yourself!”

It hangs in the air. None of them have ever heard such words from her. Jonah laughs, but it’s uneasy, and he does back down. He mutters something to his sister as he stalks away. Her pale fists are clenched. She radiates anger like a mirage into the air.

“You’ll come with me inside,” she says, loudly and clearly. “Or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Then she turns, with a swish of her dress, and goes back to the house.


	29. I Think I Need A Doctor

Intubation |  **Emergency Room** | Reluctant Bedrest

\--

“Get my car keys,” she demands. “They’re in my bag there. Go and open it up, put the seats down in the back. You, and you - and you as well, you can lift him.”

They scurry to obey, through true urgency rather than the usual fear. Standing next to the car, she throws her bag into the front seat and pauses for a second to look back at the house. Perhaps the mistress is watching from a window. She’s breathing hard and fast. No colour in her face, save for the bold red line of her lips. Her eyes are big as ever, bright with a fury that makes them retreat as one.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. “Don’t expect me back.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

\--

_ “We didn’t know where she was going. I guess the nearest hospital, but we didn’t know where that was. Hell, we didn’t even know where we were. She just peeled outta there like her ass was on fire and that was all we saw. The mistress, the others… they weren’t happy at all. But they couldn’t follow her. And she didn’t come back. And… neither did he.” He twists his fingers together, looks down at them. “I - she took his collar off, while she was treating him. It was laying there on the ground, and I went over and picked it up. It was warm. From, yknow, being on his skin the whole time. And we kept it and hung it up somewhere in the room and that… that was like remembering him. Even if he wasn’t there any more.” _

_ “You don’t know what happened to him?” _

_ “No idea. I hope he made it.” _

_ The interviewer pauses, and consults briefly with their partner. _

_ “We can tell you that he did.” _

_ “You’re kidding?” _

_ “No, we’re not.” For once, it’s time for them to tell the story. “She went with him to a hospital, as you guessed - dropped him off, but refused to give her name. She didn’t stay. But the staff were successfully able to treat his injuries - broken bones, mostly - and his sudden appearance is also what kick-started our investigation.” _

_ He swipes away a tear. “Can… can I see him?” _

_ “In time, yes. For now, he’s in recovery still.” _

_ “Good. He deserved to survive. After everything they did to us.” _


	30. Now Where Did That Come From?

**Wound Reveal** | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

\--

_ “After he went… they were pissed. Really pissed. And that’s a fuckin’ understatement. I don’t know how long that blonde lady had been there, but I guess the mistress never thought she’d get the courage to leave. She was wrong - and she didn’t like that at all.” _

Jonah is homing in on him, as usual - and as usual, he’s deciding what level of resistance to give. Sometimes he’s too tired, or too sore, or there’s some kind of consequence for one of the others, and he just sits there and takes it. Today, he’s annoyed. They’ve taken the brunt of the masters’ displeasure, as a proxy for the two who escaped, and he’s sick of it. He kicks and claws and bites - Jonah has threatened to pull his teeth before, but never actually done it - and gets thrown against a wall for his efforts.

“You little shit!” Jonah kicks him for good measure as he hits the floor. “You don’t have the fucking sense to stay put, do you? Huh?” He slaps him across the face. “Answer me!”

He swipes blood from his lip. “I guess not, asshole.”

“I oughta beat the shit out of you. Help you fuckin’ learn something for once.” Corporal punishment is a favourite teaching technique here. Whether it helps with retention of instructions is up for debate.

“Go fuck yourself.” He rubs the blood onto the carpet - it’s red anyway. Nobody will notice.

“Just for that -” Jonah starts, hauling him up by the collar, but they are interrupted. The mistress is standing in the doorway.

“Put him down,” she says, and Jonah does, reluctantly. Her posture is still one of anger - she hasn’t come down from it, ever since the accident. “I’ve got something in mind for this one.”

“What are you gonna do, have him taxidermied?” Jonah sneers. “Display him in the hallway?”

She laughs, but it’s cold and unpleasant. “No. He’s wilful, but he’s got potential. I want him as one of mine.”

The thought sends a chill down his spine (at least, the part of it that’s not bruised from contact with the wall). As well as the blonde woman, the mistress has a select group who attend to her personally. They’re rarely seen and never forthcoming, and to his eyes, they’re broken. Utterly silent and utterly obedient. He’s often wondered what made them that way. It sounds like he’s about to find out.

_ “That was the start of… of some special treatment. I was wondering how it could get any worse, y’know, for us. And I guess I found out. And at the end of it, after I don’t know how long - I didn’t have a sense of time for it - yeah, I knew. I knew why her special little few acted like they did. I didn’t even want to go back to the others. I’d scare them. I’d have to just tell them to run - to go, to get lost out in the forest because nothing out there could be worse than what happens in here.” He breathes deeply. “We were changed. Marked.” _

_ “Marked?” _

_ “Yeah. Oh, yeah - I didn’t say, did I?” He sits up, onto one side, and tugs at his waistband to show the skin of his hip. The brand is livid, as though fresh. “In case we ever felt like we didn’t belong to her.” _


	31. Today's Special: Torture

Experiment |  **Whipped** | Left for Dead

\--

His will has been hollowed out, like carving a pumpkin, and replaced with hers. That’s how it feels, at least.

It brings him peace, even more profound than he had before sitting by the fire. There is no uncertainty for him, no possibility of doubt or denial. He stays at her side, and moves at her word. The collar at his throat is tighter, pressing ever so slightly; a constant reminder along with the mark seared perpetually into his flesh. The pain is ever-present, the dressings changed every day, but he no longer gives too much thought to any of it. It’s in the past. He may have struggled against it - he can’t recall. And he can’t imagine resisting such a thing now.

“I think he was a bad influence on you,” she says, a hand running idly through his hair. He stays perfectly still. Of course he still remembers the day when his friend was taken from them, but in an abstract sort of way, like a movie on television watched while half-asleep. To agree or disagree isn’t within his power. “It’s nice to see you’re so well-behaved now. I wish they were all like you.”

It’s not a question, so he doesn’t respond. The thought of the others pulls at his heart a little. He sees them as in a kind of limbo, between freedom and this - whatever this is.

“Which reminds me,” she continues, as if this is a conversation, “we caught one stealing this morning. Trying to grab some tools - for a weapon or an escape attempt, probably. He obviously needs a reminder to keep his hands to himself. Would you do something for me?”

“Yes, mistress.”

_ “Didn’t matter what it was she was asking, or how she said it - that was always the response. Pretty fucked-up, but that was just how it was.” _

_ “What would happen if you said no?” _

_ “I don’t know. Cos I never did. I mean, I did it plenty before - told them to get fucked and then got beat for it - but by then… I don’t think I was even capable of it.” _

_ “How did you feel when you found out what she wanted you to do?” _

_ “Hah. That’s the really fucked-up part - I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything.” _

“Come on, dude! You know me! You’re not gonna do something like this? Please, you’ve gotta just - just don’t, please!”

Begging doesn’t do any good, and neither does struggling: he could give plenty of advice on that front. He almost wants to tell his former comrade just to give in and make it easier, but holds his silence as two of the others secure the man to the post, with just enough room to twist and look him mostly in the eye; and the fear and disbelief there touches something in him, and it manifests as pity. He has learned, which proves it’s possible. The mistress is just trying to teach.

The whip is light in his hands and has a life of its own and the opening blow lands off-centre and provokes a squeak and a curse, and more begging. This is not one of the ones accustomed to such treatment. Perhaps it’s a first offence. Perhaps there will not be a second.

He goes to swing again and a hand, small and delicate and cold, grabs his wrist. 

“You’re being too soft,” she says. She has a ring with a pattern of blood-red stones on one of her fingers (it leaves tiny scratches from a backhand). “Harder than that.”

“Yes, mistress,” he replies, as he must.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” is the horrified mutter from the victim at the post.

“One more for each instance of bad language,” she declares loudly, and he falls silent.

_ “I hit him ten more times. It was gonna be ten in total, but there was the extra one for cursing. She didn’t like us to curse in front of her. I don’t think she liked it from Jonah either, but she’d just sigh and tell him off, and it was sort of a funny thing. For them. I… uh, the last one drew blood. But otherwise it was just marks, bruising. I think I tried not to hit the same spot more than once. Because I knew how much that sucked. I wasn’t trying to be nice… I mean, if I was trying to be nice, I wouldn’t have done it, right? _

_ “But I thought - he was only stealing, and he probably hadn’t done it before, and this was enough. No need to make it worse, right? He’d probably learn his lesson from that.” _

He turns away from the sobs and groans and follows her back upstairs.

“Well done,” she says, when he kneels at her feet, “you did exactly as I wanted,” and her cool hands touch his face, and it feels like a blessing.


	32. Salvation

“You know I fought them when they came for me,” he says abruptly. “You probably know that, right?”

“We know you put up some resistance.”

“That’s one way of saying it.” He snorts, adjusting his clothes back over the brand. “I didn’t - I didn’t know what was going on. We’re on our own in the house, some in the basement, me and one other guy upstairs, she’s out somewhere, her fuckin’  _ henchmen _ are out in the yard…. Of course I’m gonna kick off. They said they were trying to help, but they bust in there with no warning and tried to make us come with them….”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I wanted to - I used to want to escape, and I guess I still did. When I thought about it. But by that point…” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t even thinking about it. She had me.” He clenches his fist, palm upward. “Like that. She had my head.”

“The term  _ brainwashing  _ gets thrown around a lot….”

“But we weren’t  _ zombies _ , you gotta understand. I knew exactly what I was doing, we weren’t in some kind of hypnosis or anything. Before, I would’ve said that that’s what it was - we were pretty strung-out, tired, hungry… just sleepwalking most of the time. That’s what it was like for the others, the ones in the basement, and me before I got picked.”

“Picked for what?”

“To be one of hers. The others - and me, before - we’d do what we were told because otherwise we’d suffer. That was it; we just knew it was worse to resist than to just shut up and get on with it. There was no way we could put up a fight. At least, nothing that made a difference.”

“And afterwards?”

“I did what I was told because I  _ wanted _ to.” He sits there in silence for a while, hands folded in his lap. “Sounds so weird.” His jaw tightens. “We lived for her. We were perfectly behaved, for her. The others didn’t get that; they were still struggling, like some kind of battle they’d never really win. But we’d made it. We were way beyond that. So, yeah. When these guys turned up trying to take us away, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t know who they were, and I sure as hell didn’t think they were there to do any good. I know the guys in the basement got out of there like their asses were on fire. Which should’ve been my reaction as well. But no, I just stood my ground like a fuckin’ idiot, ready to fight like six of them at once. I didn’t even… I didn’t even have shoes on. ”

“They managed to subdue you, though?”

“Oh, they didn’t have to. Instead of trying to fight me face to face, they all backed off and one person got hold of my collar and took me down. So I went with them. I was so used to it, I…” he bites his lip. “I still am. You use the right commands, or the right holds - I’ll go with it. It’s just instant.”

“It’ll wear off in time,” the interviewer assures him. “Maybe with counselling; it’s a process, but you’ll be able to shed all those associations.”

“Good. ‘Cause I wanna be able to wear neckties again.” He smiles, but it’s thin. “The blonde woman. It was her, she was with the team. She put a leash on me and I followed her - man, she was shaking. I don’t even know how much it took for her to go back there. Because she  _ went _ , she  _ escaped _ , and then she’s brave enough to walk right back in and come up to me - a lot bigger than her - knowing I’m one of the ones who doesn’t even  _ want _ to be rescued any more… and just say  _ I’m the boss of you, come on. We’re going. _ But I’m glad she did it. I  _ did _ want out. I just didn’t know it.”

“She’s been our primary source of information. We haven’t been able to get close to the main house - the location where you were held - but there are smaller properties like the one you were in that day, and a lot of those have been turned over.”

“You’re not gonna put her in jail or anything? Because it wasn’t her fault.”

“It doesn’t look like it. Even if there were charges to be made, she’s helped out enough that a bargain would be easy to strike.”

“The rest of ‘em deserve to go to jail. She sure as hell doesn’t.”

“I’m afraid we can’t comment on the progress of the investigation.”

“That means you haven’t caught them.” He shrugs. “So... I’m definitely gonna keep locking my door at night.”


	33. Extra: The Artisan

The strength of the sunlight makes them blink, after the darkness of the van. The room has large windows on one side, almost all the way to the high ceiling: a studio of sorts, with half the floor made of shining parquet and bearing benches, sinks and worktops, and racking on the walls. The other half is an old but substantial carpet, intricate in design, and that’s what they kneel on. Jonah occupies most of the sofa near the door, putting his feet up on a low table, while his pair of assistants stand.

“Who wants to go first?” the woman asks. She’s addressing those on the floor directly - a rare thing. They aren’t sure how to respond.

“Hell, I’ll do it,” one of them says. He knows by now that volunteering for anything is usually a mistake, but he can’t help it. He’s young, and some misplaced bravado is still galloping round his veins. “Get it over with.”

“Alright,” she says. “Bring him here.”

They haul him forward and deposit him in the middle of the carpet: something he couldn’t fight against even if he was dared to. His hands are linked behind his back and his ankles joined by a foot of chain, and the two are connected in turn. He can shift position but not stand. For today, there are bands crossing his chest as well - and two ropes coming from these, held by the people from the house. They unlock his collar and pull it away. He flexes his neck, bare for the first time in many days, and waits with apprehension for whatever’s coming.

She sets a bucket down beside him and throws a cloth into it, making the steaming foam on the surface shudder. “What’s your name?”

“Uh,” he’s about to give it, then second-guesses. “You think I’m gonna tell you that?”

“Ok, suit yourself.” She doesn’t seem bothered by his defiance. “Are you allergic to anything? I’m talking contact allergies - latex, nickel, wool, detergents… and are you vegan? Or vegetarian?”

“No,” he says slowly, the pause born more of confusion than anything else. “No, I’m not. Any of those.”

“Good.” She fishes in the bucket, stirring it and retrieving the cloth. He closes his eyes out of instinct when she reaches for him, but she starts to gently wash his face and neck. “They never keep them loose enough to clean properly underneath….”

“You want ‘em to escape?” Jonah responds, around his toothpick. “Because that’s how they escape.”

Her look is a withering one. “I think you’ve got them fairly well contained, don’t you?” She goes to empty the bucket and brings back a thick fluffy towel to dry him with, and a pad of paper, among other things. “Alright, that’s good. Sit up straight, for me, and look forward.”

He obeys and she circles his throat with a tape measure, inspects it, and scribbles on the paper. “Put your head down. Up, look at the ceiling. Look left. Look right…. That’s great. Thank you.” She makes more notes. “Usually I’d get some photos. But somebody,” a glance at Jonah, “doesn’t want that kind of thing hanging around.”

Jonah just waves his hand. It’s not his decision, after all; they’re here at the will of the mistress.

“Ok.” She takes the captive’s chin lightly. “What a cute face.” He doesn’t respond, although it seems like he wants to. “You’ve got such a gorgeous skin tone. And a wider neck, thick shoulders… let’s say a larger collar, black leather. And the colour of the hardware? That’s a question.”

“Dunno.” Jonah shrugs, crosses his legs. Not interested in the slightest. “She said you could do all the design, as usual - she’d be happy.”

“Well she’d better be, in that case. I’m thinking silver, or gold. Let me just….” Taking a swatch of leather, its surface pierced with a single silver stud, and holding it next to his face.

“Do I get a choice in this?” he asks.

The others tense up. None of them are to speak unless spoken to. None of them are permitted an opinion. His insolence could cost him dearly.

“Well,” she says, “you’ll be wearing it, won’t you?”

Everyone breathes a silent sigh of relief.

“Gold will go better with your skin, but we don’t want it looking tacky. So, something closer to brass.”

“What about the copper?” he ventures, hesitantly.

“That’s rose gold, there. A little too reddish, I think….” She picks it up so he can see, and he agrees. “Although….” She fishes in the box and plucks out something else. “Here’s a thought.” The flat gold-coloured plates shine almost amber, opulent in the sunlight. “How about this? We could layer this on top of the black, and then the hardware can be black as well.” She tries them out together, building the combination with a ring of black metal and holding it up to him. He tilts his head obligingly. “Yes, I like that. Do you?”

“I like it,” he concludes.

“Wonderful. Maybe some adjustments, but we’ll see. Who’s next?”

The second one comes with a little less reluctance. He answers her questions with a shake of his head and settles into the cross-ties with squared shoulders, facing forward as she cleans his skin, giving nothing away.

“There you go. That’s good.” She does the measurements one by one, murmuring to herself, guiding him with fingertips. “Very nice strong jawline, square features. I’d say a wide brown leather, let’s see for the exact shade... embossed - traditional, Western-style. Silver hardware with a patina. Studs, and… maybe some turquoise detailing, if we’re feeling fancy.”

“Fancy?” he says, breaking his determined silence.

She opens her hand to reveal a small turquoise stone, set in an ornate silver ring.

“I guess,” he mutters.

“Your choice. If you think it’ll look too...delicate? Girly?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Alright. Well, let me know if you change your mind,” which sounds sincere, even if he might never get the chance to object again. “You’ve got some scarring here, at the back….”

“Old wound,” he says, evading her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch. You need a good lining.” This is noted and underlined with a quick pencil-scratch. “They all have linings, but some are softer than others. You can have neon-pink fur, if you like.”

His lip curls. “No way.”

“Fair’s fair - and there, you’re done. Who’s our last visitor?”

Jonah briefly pays attention as the exchange is carried out. “This one’ll bite you.”

“If he’s so unhappy, why’d you bring him here?” she shoots back. “You know my rules.” Jonah snorts, which makes her bristle. “Clean and healthy; awake and aware - and not stressed-out. Calm,  _ stable _ .”

“He isn’t stressed, he’s just a bitch. And  _ you _ don’t want me to muzzle ‘em. So you’re gonna get bit.”

“Well, he’s welcome to have a go.” She approaches the third with a level of caution. There’s tension in the ropes that keep him restrained: either they’re holding him more firmly, or he’s leaning against it, or perhaps both. “Same for you - any allergies, any preferences?”

“No,” he replies softly. “I’m good.”

The person who comes and removes his collar gets a glance which makes them hastily retreat. She crouches and takes up a cloth, and he bears the process without complaint.

“Ok, I’ll measure you now.” Her hands are so very close to his face, but she uses the same care as with the others, assessing him gently. “That’s great. Thank you.” He tilts his head back further to stare up at her. “Oh, look at those eyes….” She goes immediately to rummage in her storage box. “They are  _ heartbreaking _ .”

He absorbs the compliment with some scepticism. She returns with a length of grey leather, plain but smooth and deep in its colour. “This - this is perfect. I don’t have much of it, but there should be enough left. Silver hardware, grey stitching - not to stand out too much - double strap or single?”

“He’ll need double,” Jonah says.

“I think there’s enough for that, twice over.”

“You make two of them?” he asks.

“In case one gets broken or damaged, yes. Sometimes one can serve as a prototype while we work on the other one….”

“You think I can break it?”

She smiles at him, making notes with one hand and holding up materials with the other. “Nobody’s managed it yet.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“You can try, if you’d like. Oh, this is going to look wonderful - all of them will.”

“My sister will be pleased,” Jonah remarks, getting to his feet. “Especially since we’ve come all the way out here.”

“I’m not going to that house,” she says with sudden vehemence. “ _ Never _ . Alright, sweetheart. We’ve finished with you. Thank you for not biting me.”

He shrugs. “You never gave me a reason to.”

“Come on.” Jonah grabs his hair and re-fastens the old collar - an affair of plain tan leather for all of them, with heavy steel buckles locked by padlocks. “While you’re being so friendly.”

Their last sight of the place is her, pinning notes up on a large cork board, humming as she gathers her tools.


End file.
